Chapter 60

For the first time ever, Harlow doesn't come to my game, and it affects me. Badly. She usually rides in with her friends or with her dad if he's home, because I like to arrive an hour earlier to meet with Coach and get some practice in before the arena fills.

It wasn't until I got onto the court and saw her friends sitting front row center without her that I realized she was a no-show. At a break in the game, I questioned her friends, and they responded with a nonresponse. Harlow had messaged them, saying she didn't need a ride.

That was it.

I spend the rest of the game distracted, constantly looking over at the crowd, waiting to see familiar eyes, encouraging me to keep going, to step up my game because I'm better than what I'm showing. My team notices my mind's not in the game. My coach does too. He pulls me aside during halftime, tells me I'm letting my team down. I want to tell him I don't care—that I have a feeling I'm letting Harlow down more.

We lose. Get annihilated by a team we've beaten a dozen times before. It's my fault. I know this. I just don't have it in me to care.

The second I'm able to access my phone, I do. I expect messages from Harlow, but all I have are missed calls from her dad. I don't bother showering or getting changed. I call him back on the way to my van, my heart continuously thumping in my chest.

"Are you with Harlow?" he asks.

"I just finished a game."

The phone fills with static at his heavy exhale. "So, she was there?"

"No."

There's silence at his end and on mine, and it makes me stop in my tracks. For the longest moment, I stand in the middle of the parking lot, my phone held to my ear, waiting for… something.

I just don't know what.

"Can you go check on her for me, Jace?"

"Yeah, I'll let you know."

Harlow's house is mostly dark when I get there. The only light comes from her bedroom, which is normal for this time of night. I sit in my van for a moment, looking back on the rest of the day. I picked her up for school and drove her home, and she didn't have a lot to say, so I kept quiet too. She seemed tired, eyes bloodshot, and a little slower to move than usual. She wasn't her usual teasing self, but I can't imagine recovering from what happened with her parents to be easy. I just needed to be there for her, like she asked me to be. I knew that when she'd be ready to talk, she would.

I get out and knock on the front door a few times, and when she doesn't answer, I try opening the door. It's locked. At least that's something.

The only times I've used my key were when I had to dash home and return soon after. It feels strange to use it now, but I told Harlow's dad that I'd check in on her, and so that's my excuse. But, if I'm being honest, I would've used it anyway.

The moment I push the door open, I can hear music coming from her room. It's loud enough that she probably can't hear her phone ringing if she didn't have it in her hand—which she usually does. I take the stairs two at a time and find her bedroom door open, but she's not in there. From the doorway, I take stock of the room. The bed is unmade, the covers pushed to one side. Her phone's on her desk, face down, and the TV is off. Her bathroom light is on, the door wide open, and so I step into the room and peer in there. Air fills my lungs for the first time since my game started, and I let my shoulders relax. Harlow's standing in front of the mirror, dressed in only her underwear and a tank top, and I take a moment to watch as she gathers her hair and clips it to the back of her head. Her mouth is moving, quietly singing along to the song playing through her speakers. She twists at her waist, turning toward me, but she doesn't see me. She slips her thumb into the side of her underwear, and I almost tell her to stop. That I'm here. That I'm watching. But she doesn't lower her underwear all the way… just enough to reveal her hip. I stand taller when I see the marks there, my eyes narrowed, mind spinning in confusion. Thin red lines mar her flesh, only long enough to remain hidden beneath her underwear. I freeze, unable to comprehend what the cuts are or how they got there. I don't move. Don't breathe. Not even when the glint of a razor reflects off the lights, or when she presses the sharp edge against her flesh. I'm transfixed on nothing but her hands, her fingers on the razor as she pushes in, releasing drops of crimson, and I… I…

I'm sitting on Dad's knee while I move the leather bracelets around his wrist. There's a thick scar there, a line. It's as long as my finger. "Daddy, what's this?"

"It's nothing, son," he says, replacing the bracelets. "Just marks from when Daddy was sick."

"But you're better now?"

"Much better now."

I gasp at the memory… and at the sight in front of me.

"Jace!" Harlow yells, her eyes filled with tears as she slams the door shut between us. I collapse on the edge of the bed, my vision blurred. I try to breathe through the pain, through the chaos running circles in my mind.

I don't understand…

And I don't know how much time passes before Harlow appears from her bathroom, now cloaked in a robe. She sits down beside me, and I try so fucking hard to face her, but I can't.

I don't understand…

"You can't tell my dad," is all she says. There's no explanation of her actions, no excuses for what I just witnessed. There's only this. A plea to cover up her pain. "Please, Jace. Promise me you won't tell him. He's going through enough."

I finally find the courage to face her, and for the first time, she's the one wiping my tears. "Harlow…"

"It's nothing," she cries. "I'll stop, okay? I promise. Just don't tell anyone."

I don't understand… "I don't think I can do that."

She kisses me—a way to distract me, I'm sure, but still, I kiss her back.

Even though I know it's wrong.

After a moment, she pulls away, but not far enough that I can't still smell the alcohol on her breath.

"Promise me," she begs. "I've kept your secrets, Jace. Now you have to keep mine."

I don't leave Harlow's side. Not until she's fast asleep beside me, snoring quietly, do I even move. As silently as possible, I leave her bed, slip on my shoes, grab my keys, and head out to my van in the backyard. I use the headlights to light up the half-court, and for hours, I play while my mind tries to make sense of everything, but…

I don't understand…

I play until my hands sting from the constant contact with the leather.

Until my heart and lungs can no longer take the assault.

I play until every single muscle in my body screams in agony.

And I don't stop. Not until the physical pain outweighs my emotional one.